


i wanna be your boyfriend

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Bad Matchmaking, Dating, Double Dating, M/M, Mutual Pining, Online Dating, Romantic Comedy, Shatterdome Era Hijinks, a host of random men hermann invariably offends in one way or another, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 19:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15758433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Hermann doesn't date, but his newly self-appointed wingman Newt is determined to change that.





	i wanna be your boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

> this was saved in my docs as "hermann gottlieb fucks"
> 
> or: my continuing quest to deliver wacky newmann rom com hijinks! title taken from a ramones song that is on my newmann playlist lol

It’s not like he and Hermann have much of a relationship beyond a strictly _professional_ one, if their interactions in the lab could be remotely deemed _professional_. They don’t go out of their way to spend time together, beyond dinners in the mess after work or the Save Our Research Division fundraisers Pentecost sometimes sends them off to. They don’t discuss their personal lives. They don’t small talk. But, you know, Newt’s an impulsive guy, the proverbial cat being perpetually martyred on the altar of curiosity, and sometimes words kind of burst free.

“You don’t date,” Newt says, after Hermann drops that particular bombshell—Newt’s not even really sure what sparked the conversation at the point. “What do you mean you _don’t date_?”

“What I mean,” Hermann says, pulling his glasses off and looking Newt square in the eyes, “is that I don’t date. I know your communication skills leave much to be desired—”

“But you used to date,” Newt points out, and it’s always a risk alluding to Their Letters (usually it makes Hermann shut down instantly), but Hermann used to talk about dates he’d go on—they were scarce and few, albeit, but they still _existed_ —and he used to complain to Newt when they’d go badly and guys ended up being total tools, and he used to complain when they went _well_ and the guys _weren’t_ total tools (because he’s Hermann).

“I did,” Hermann says. “And now I don’t. It’s quite simple, really.” Newt folds his arms. Hermann sighs. “Our current circumstances aren’t exactly ideal for creating lasting relationships, Newton. When would I have the time?”

“I go on plenty of dates, and I’m in here just as much as you,” Newt says. That’s a lie. The last date Newt went on was a year ago, and it went well, up until the guy saw Newt’s tats and accused him of being into weird kaiju porn and kicked him out of his apartment, but Hermann doesn’t need to know that.

“But you’re—” Hermann says, and then stops. “Well, you’re you.”

Newt bristles. “What’s _that_ mean?”

“It means you have a certain appeal that I happen to lack,” Hermann says, face going bright red. “It means you’re a great deal more— _dateable_.”

“Oh,” Newt says. “Huh.” Newt can’t tell if that’s a compliment. “Hey, man, you’re dateable too. You’re plenty dateable.”

“Are you done?” Hermann says, sounding pained. “I have some important paperwork to finish. The same important paperwork _you_ have to finish.”

Look. Newt may not totally get along with the guy, Hermann might file official complaints about him on the regular, but Hermann’s a hard worker, Newt can’t deny that. He deserves to let off some steam every once in a while. Besides—maybe if Hermann gets laid he’ll stop being so much of a tight-ass. And Newt can _help_ him in such an endeavor. What else are lab partners for, you know, if not scoring you some hot dates?

Newt raises his scalpel and points it at Hermann. “From this point on I am designating myself your official wingman.”

“That’s _really_ not necessary, Newton,” Hermann says.

“I am going to get you so many dates you won’t know what to do with yourself,” Newt says. “Mark my words.”

“I'm shaking with anticipation," Hermann says.

 

* * *

 

Newt starts wingman duties almost immediately after that. He’s not really sure what Hermann’s type is—Hermann was extraordinarily unhelpful when Newt grilled him, simply said _men_ , which Newt kind of gathered already, thanks—so he has to rely on making educated guesses. Luckily, fate hands him an opportunity in the mess hall the next day: some buff, bearded jaeger pilot has been eyeing up Newt and Hermann’s isolated table for the last half hour, like, _sexy_  interested eyeing up, which means there’s a fifty-fifty chance Hermann’s the one he’s eyeing up. “One second,” Newt tells Hermann, hopping to his feet and jogging over to the guy’s table. Newt slaps his palms down on the table. The jaeger pilot looks up expectantly. “Hey,” Newt says.

“Hi, Dr. Geiszler,” the pilot says. He flashes a charming smile. He’d probably be nearly a foot taller than Newt if he stood up.

“Are you free this weekend?” Newt says. “Friday night, maybe? Drinks? Maybe a movie?”

The pilot blinks. “Uh,” he says. “Yes, I am free. That would be—wow.” He grins. “I didn’t think you—you know—”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be with me,” Newt says dismissively. Guess he gambled incorrectly on that fifty-fifty chance, but he’s made it this far. He points at Hermann; Hermann does a poor job of appearing like he isn’t hanging on to every word of the conversation. “It’d be with my lab partner, Hermann. Dr. Gottlieb.” Newt waves. Hermann quickly looks to the ceiling. “Isn’t he _cute_?”

The pilot’s grin fades. “Wait,” he says. “It’d only be with one of you?”

“Uh?” Newt says. “Yes?”

“Aren’t you two together?” the pilot says.

“ _No_ , we’re not—” Newt sputters. “Me and Hermann? No.”

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed.

“I’m not trying to _proposition_ you,” Newt says, “I’m just trying to find my friend a date, dude. My lab partner. Find my lab partner a date. Uh. I’m gonna—” He trips back to Hermann, too blindsided by the implication that he and _Hermann_ would—Hermann _hates_ him, he’d never—whatever.

“He said no, then,” Hermann says, smug, when Newt lands heavily on his side of the bench. “As I expected.”

“Um. Yes,” Newt says.

Hermann hums, lip twitching up. “Frankly, he’s not my usual type. I don’t imagine we would’ve hit it off very well.”

“What _is_ your type, then?” Newt sighs. Hermann looks at him cryptically. “Come on, give me something to work with. Not into beefy guys?”

Hermann shakes his head.

“Tall guys?”

Hermann shakes his head again.

“How helpful.” Newt spears a bit of potato viciously.

 

* * *

 

Their Friday night, then, remains open, which is why Newt follows Hermann back to his quarters from the lab when they clock out at twenty-oh-oh. Hermann refuses to acknowledge Newt on the walk back until they’ve stopped in front of his door. “What do you want?” he sighs.

“Get dressed up,” Newt says. “I’m taking you _out_ tonight.”

Hermann’s back stiffens; he turns, hand flexing on the head of his cane. “What?”

“You, me, that gay bar down the street,” Newt ticks off one finger for each point, “and whatever moderately appealing guy we bag you.”

“Oh.” His shoulders sag. “Newton. Really. It’s not—”

“Look, you’ll be doing me a favor too,” Newt says. “And my ego.” Newt kind of wants a reminder that he can still get it, even at the ripe age of thirty-four.

Hermann worries his lower lip between his teeth. For a moment, Newt’s convinced he’s going to say no and slam his door in Newt’s face. Then Hermann nods. “Alright,” he says. “ _Fine_.”

“Sweet!” Newt says. “Huh, I didn’t think that’d work.”

Hermann looks mildly embarrassed. “What do I—that is, how should I dress for the occasion?”

Newt regards him. He reaches out and undoes Hermann’s top two buttons, ruffles Hermann's hair until Hermann swats him away. “ _Casual_. Lose the blazer and sweater,” Newt says. “Roll your sleeves up a little.” It’ll be a start, anyway.

“Casual,” Hermann repeats.

“Meet you here in twenty minutes,” Newt says, and hustles off.

 

Tonight’s about Hermann, so Newt just throws on a t-shirt and _artfully_ messes up his hair. Nothing too elaborate. Hermann is standing in the hallway looking practically naked in just slacks and a button-up when Newt comes out, but he’s left his dorky little glasses on. Newt whistles when he sees him. “Looking hot, dude,” he says. He reaches and undoes the top two buttons again—Hermann’s done them back up while Newt was changing—and takes the liberty of rolling Hermann’s cuffs for him while Hermann protests weakly.

Hermann has nice arms, surprisingly strong and sturdy beneath all those layers. Nice, delicate wrists too. Best not to dwell. Newt pats Hermann’s shoulder. “There!” he exclaims. “Off we go!”

Hermann’s a lot more relaxed when Newt’s plied him with a bit of alcohol, though he does still look mildly distraught over the loud music and strobe lights and large crowd of people, so they mostly just lurk at the bar and scope out their options.

“Him?” Newt says, and points at a gangly-looking blonde guy on the dance floor. Hermann shakes his head. Valid—the guy’s clearly a tourist, and anyone who willingly vacations at Pacific coast cities these days probably has a reoccurring habit of making questionable decisions. There’s a guy in a garishly-patterned shirt--tiny multi-colored birds--giving Hermann a _very_ interested look further down the bar, though. He’s got big, chunky glasses too. Sort of geekishly endearing. “Him?” Newt says, and nods in the guy’s direction.

Hermann’s eyes linger a little too long to be considered uninterested. “Perhaps,” he says. “Ah. He isn’t completely objectionable.”

“That’s a _ringing_ endorsement if I’ve ever heard one,” Newt says with a grin. He orders two pink concoctions from the bartender while Hermann returns bird-shirt’s _look_ and shoves them at Hermann when they’re ready. “My treat,” Newt says over Hermann’s stammered protests. “Good luck.”

Hermann balances both glasses in his free hand and inches down the bar, looking flustered. Adorable, too, Newt might say, a word he would typically _never_ apply to Hermann, as stuffy and uptight as he can sometimes be. There's just something endearing about seeing him kind of—vulnerable. Newt watches from afar as Hermann engages the guy in conversation—he hands over the drink, leans in a little, smiles a lot more than usual, and the guy smiles back, responds to Hermann in low tones. Not conversation. _Flirting_. And Hermann’s—pretty good at it? Newt’s chest feels tight.

He quickly orders himself a Crimson Typhoon-themed cocktail and looks anywhere but Hermann and the guy in the bird shirt while he drinks it. (It burns on the way down—a little too cinnamony. It’s not good, to be honest, but Newt desperately needs a distraction.) The guy in the ugly shirt, really, who wears stuff with _birds_ on it? Newt has a shirt covered in tiny rainbows and UFOs that’s way cooler. Hermann would probably like it. 

When did Hermann learn how to flirt?

“Hey,” someone says, startling Newt from his thoughts, and Newt realizes he’s drained his cocktail. The blonde tourist guy from the dance floor is standing in front of him. “You okay, buddy?”

“Of course,” Newt says. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Easy, he tells himself, not so defensive. Newt’s here for his own benefit too, after all. He turns on the tiny modicum of charm he has. “I’m Newt,” he says.

“Tom,” the blonde says. He sounds vaguely Southern American. He nods over at Hermann. “Is that your ex?”

“Partner,” Newt corrects. Ugly shirt guy brushes his hand against Hermann’s bare forearm, and Newt’s knuckles go white around the stem of his glass. Tom looks between Hermann and Newt with something like worry on his face. “Lab partner, I mean,” Newt corrects when he sees Tom. “Not—that kind of partner.”

“Ah,” Tom says.

“I didn’t know he could flirt,” Newt muses. “You share a lab with a guy for years, and not once—it never occurs to you, you know, that he could—” What? Have a personality outside of work? A life outside of work? “He’s just _Hermann_ , you know?”

“No,” Tom says. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know. Who’s Hermann?”

Tom’s kind of nice to look at. Newt sets his glass on the bar. “Wanna dance, man?”

Tom shrugs. “Okay.”

 

Newt finds Hermann an hour or so later, sitting alone at the bar and stirring the ice around in his glass with a tiny plastic cocktail sword; Newt ditched Tom the second Newt realized Tom wasn’t actually helping him enjoy himself. Also, Tom was a terrible dancer. “Hey,” Newt says. “No luck with that guy, then?”

Hermann shakes his head. “Everything was going well,” he says, “until he delivered a _rousing_ endorsement of the coastal wall program.”

“Ouch. Yikes.” Newt slings an arm around Hermann’s shoulders. “Well, hey, at least I kinda know what to look for, right? Geeky little guys? That’s, like, half of LOCCENT.”

“Mmhmm,” Hermann says, and keeps stirring his ice.

 

* * *

 

Newt doesn’t suggest the bar again. Keeping it within the Shatterdome sounds more efficient—no paying for taxis, no crowded rooms, no overwhelming amounts of strangers. Better for everyone involved. There is an influx of semi-cute dorks in LOCCENT, anyway, Newt wasn’t kidding, any of them would probably be happy to score a date with the mysterious Dr. Gottlieb. The _genius_ Dr. Gottlieb. The oddly alluring Dr. Gottlieb. The—

“I get the point,” Hermann says. “Thank you, Newton.”

“His name is Rami,” Newt says, low in Hermann’s ear, as they watch Newt’s next target—and Hermann’s possible latest conquest—lock the door to his quarters behind him. “Tendo says he’s nice and likes Star Trek. That’s one thing you guys have in common.” Hermann scowls and purposely digs one of his pointy elbows into Newt’s stomach. Newt just grins. “Okay, two things, but you’re not being very nice right _now_.” Rami is pretty cute; he has thick, dark, wavy hair, dresses neatly, which Hermann would appreciate, and according to Tendo—who, by virtue of being both likable and having unlimited access to the personnel files of every single person in the Shatterdome, seems to know everyone—he’s single. Newt taps Hermann on the back. “Go get ‘em.”

 

Hermann’s involvement with Rami is short-lived. They make it beyond one date, but after date number two Hermann—apparently—never wants to see him again. “I don’t know, Newton,” he sighs, when Newt finally successfully pesters him into talking about it in the lab a day after he spots Rami looking somewhat put out in the mess hall and casting forlorn looks at Hermann. “We didn’t _connect_.”

“He’s a computer programmer,” Newt says. “He’s nice _._ He’s _hot_. You’re—” Newt swallows down what he’d been about to say, “you, uh, program _jaegers._ What’s not to connect with?”

“Perhaps a little too nice,” Hermann says. “I believe I might’ve—ah—insulted him. Over something very minor, I assure you. He invited me back to his room—”

“Holy shit!” Newt knows he’s gaping, but can’t seem to care. "He invited you—"

“Not like _that_ ,” Hermann says, red-faced, but continues. “His taste in music left much to be desired. I simply suggested he change it—”

Yeah, Hermann’s _suggested_ Newt change his music plenty of times. Newt can’t help it; he snorts. “I can’t believe you,” he says, but he’s grinning, not nearly as pissed as he should be. Relieved a bit, even. “I don’t know why I bothered asking him out for you in the first place, you grumpy bastard.”

“I suppose that’s it, then?” Hermann says, hopeful.

Newt shakes his head, and Hermann’s expression crumbles. 

 

* * *

 

Next plan of attack: online dating.

“It’s super easy,” Newt says, after having commandeered Hermann’s cell phone, hiding in the lab supply closet, downloading three different dating apps (for a good amount of options), and finally emerging triumphant to an affronted and shouting Hermann. “I used Tinder a few times when I was still teaching. It kind of got weird really fast, though, because I was basically the same age as my students and I kept matching with them and they kept asking for extra credit, but in a, like, sexy way, which made it even weirder—but _you_ won’t have that problem!”

“How fortunate for me,” Hermann says, having resigned himself to his fate. He watches Newt tap around on his phone warily. The app wants Newt to upload a few pictures of Hermann, but a quick scroll through Hermann’s camera roll reveals nothing usable but one incredibly stern photo identical to the one on Hermann’s ID badge. Newt switches open the camera.

“Smile, Hermann!” he says, and snaps a few photos before Hermann can hide his face. Newt gets in on one, too, arm hooked around Hermann’s neck with his tongue sticking out while Hermann looks grumpy, just to prove to any potential suitors Hermann has at least _one_ friend (and an extremely cool one like Newt at that). He sets Hermann’s preferences—men, around his age, no farther away than a reasonable bus drive from the Shatterdome. “You have to think of a little bio, now,” Newt says. “Sell yourself. Talk about how you programmed the first jaeger. And basically created the entire kaiju alert system. That’s sexy. People will think that’s sexy.” He types it in. Newt’s not actually sure if that’s sexy; his old Tinder bio consisted of a single _X-Files_ quote, so he may not be the best judge. “What else do you like? Sudoku? Putting together Lego sets? I’m putting those in.”

 

Hermann, perhaps as Newt should have expected, does not find any suitable candidates on the app. He makes plenty of matches, though: a guy who asks Hermann if he and his cute friend in the picture with him are game for a threeway (“Do we _exude_ a certain _vibe_ ?” Newt says in response to that, and then remembers he never told Hermann about the incident in the mess hall and shuts his mouth), a guy with some sort of raging professor kink who opens the conversation by asking if Hermann would make him stay after class winking emoji drooling emoji (“It’s the glasses,” Newt explains), a guy who asks Hermann what his astrological sign is and—upon finding out that Hermann's a Gemini—blocks him instantly, a straight-up dick pic (“He called it his ‘category four,’” Hermann sighs; “Category two, maybe,” Newt counters, examining it over Hermann’s shoulder), a legitimate kaiju cultist who casually invites Hermann to attend a meeting (“They will _definitely_ murder you,”), a guy who seems genuinely interested in asking Hermann about his research but turns out to be even _more_ interested in asking Hermann what he’d been doing if he was there with him drooling emoji.

Hermann deletes the app after two weeks. He doesn’t mourn the loss.

 

* * *

 

"Double dating is fun!” Newt exclaims a few days later, rifling through Hermann’s closet to find something suitable for tonight. “It’ll be a lot less awkward for you, I promise. I’ll be there, for one thing.” Newt’s never been in Hermann’s bedroom before, save for one time they got _very_ tipsy at a Shatterdome-wide victory party and he had to help Hermann into bed before staggering back to his own. From what he remembers, it hasn’t changed much since then: same neat bedspread, same neat desk, same neat stack of books on that neat desk (with two perfectly symmetrical bookends), same widely uninteresting wardrobe. It’s largely impersonal—Hermann keeps photographs of his siblings on his desk in the lab, stores most of his research and favorite books and even a blanket on the couch there too—but it’s weird nonetheless to see this side of his lab partner.

Hermann sits on the edge of his neat bed, his hands folded in his lap as he watches Newt dig around. “I’ve never been on one before,” he says. “Suppose _neither_ of them like me?”

Newt pulls out an MIT hoodie he instantly recognizes as his own. “Hey,” he says, “didn’t I lend you this?” The lab’s air conditioning had been broken one day, in the sense it _wouldn’t turn off_ , and Hermann refused to miss any work to get more layers from his quarters so Newt gave him the only thing he had on hand.

“I’m sorry,” Hermann says, flushing. “You’re more than welcome to take it back—”

“Nah,” Newt says, privately enjoying the thought of Hermann wearing it around. It’d been a little short on Hermann, Newt remembers, but still baggy somehow. “Keep it. I have another one.” He ducks back into the closet. “Also, neither of them liking you? Fucking ridiculous. You’re Hermann Gottlieb. You’re—well, you’re not exactly _cool_ —oh, wear this.”

He tosses a nice, saffron yellow sweater with elbow patches at Hermann. It looks cozy. A little oversized. Hermann holds it out away from himself. “ _This_?”

“It’s dorky-cute,” Newt says. It’ll make Hermann seem—softer.

Hermann goes into the bathroom to change—despite the fact it’s _just_ a sweater—and Newt starts poking around his room some more. Nothing else exciting in the closet. No exciting books on his desk. He has a space heater next to the bathroom door, a tea kettle (identical to the one in the lab) and a few mugs on his dresser, and next to that—Newt does a double take.

Hermann’s framed the little picture Newt took of them together in the lab for his dating profile. It’s blurry, turned grainy with transition to printed form, and Hermann is frowning and Newt looks ridiculous, but there it sits on the dresser. Newt’s heart does that funny little twist that seems to go hand-in-hand with Hermann’s presence these days.

He doesn’t ask about the picture when Hermann steps back into the bedroom.

 

Their dates for the night are techs named Emilio and Sebastian that Newt runs into a lot in the jaeger bay when he sneaks in to—uh—appropriate (and recycle for the good of science) discarded equipment for not-quite-PPDC-approved experiments. Newt wouldn’t exactly call them _friends_ , but they no longer try to stop Newt or threaten him with official reprimand when they catch him stealing shit, so he thinks they at least qualify as acquaintances.

(“It’d be a double date with me and Hermann. I mean Dr. Gottlieb,” he tells them when they catch him on a usual errand run for some power cords, and Newt suddenly realizes _hey, maybe they’re single_. “I’m trying to get him out on more dates, you know.”

“Believe me,” Emilio says, with a glance at Sebastian, “I know.”)

They sit at a table for four, Newt and Hermann at one side, Emilio and Sebastian at the other, and once they order their drinks the awkward small talk begins. “How long have you and Dr. Gottlieb been partners?” Sebastian says, smiling politely at Newt.

“Well,” Newt says, not sure if he means _lab_ or _research_ , because that’s two very different numbers. “Technically four years, even more technically closer to eleven years. Pen pals, you know. That’s how Hermann and I met.”

“I wish _we_ had an interesting story like that,” Sebastian says, and turns his smile to Emilio. “We met on the job two years or so back.”

“I got transferred here when Anchorage shut down,” Emilio explains, smiling back.

“Hermann was in Anchorage for a bit!” Newt says, desperate to pull Hermann into the conversation, because Hermann’s been sitting there staring down at his hands for five minutes now. “This was back when we had an actual staff and _interns_ to boss around, can you believe—”

“ _I_ never bossed around interns,” Hermann interrupts.

“—you totally bossed around interns, they were terrified of you and you _loved_ it, don’t pretend, but that’s not the story. We were overstaffed and Anchorage was understaffed, and Pentecost was so tired of your stupid complaint forms—”

“That’s not why. The Marshal recommended me for the position because he admired my work ethic—”

“—anyway, they sent Hermann off to Anchorage.” Newt’s smile falters, then; that time Hermann was gone is not something he likes to remember. It was—weird. Lonely. He didn’t have anyone to talk to, and the quality of his work slipped to a new low, and he was grumpy and mildly pissed-off all the time. Interns avoided him. “And then Anchorage sent him back after a month.”

“It was cold,” Hermann says, lamely. “Er, besides. Hong Kong needed me more.”

“And he missed me,” Newt says, grinning cheekily.

Hermann doesn’t immediately deny it, like he usually would, and his cheeks turn a light pink. “No one in Anchorage had quite your—enthusiasm. Or the willingness to poke holes in my theories. My work became sloppy without you.”

Hermann never told him that before—that his work suffered too. Newt blinks at him in mild surprise. He realizes he’s forgotten the point of the story. “So, yeah, Anchorage,” he says, turning his attention back to Emilio and Sebastian, who don’t look phased by Newt and Hermann’s sudden monopolization of the conversation.

The date goes by without anything particularly bad or good happening: the food is nice, far better than the Shatterdome’s, despite rationing, and Emilio and Sebastian are also nice, and eager to get to know Newt and Hermann (more so than any of Hermann’s previous dates, it seems), and the walk home is _also_ nice. “Thank you for inviting us out,” Sebastian says, once they swipe their IDs to get back into the Shatterdome. He and Emilio are standing poised at the beginning of the hallway that would lead them back to where j-tech quarters are located. “We should do this again.”

Newt shoots Hermann a little _look_. “Definitely!”

“Yeah,” Emilio says, with a fond look at Sebastian, “Good excuse to get _him_ out more. It’s always nice to get to know other couples around the Shatterdome, too.”

Newt and Hermann take identical sharp intakes of breath. “Other couples?” Newt echoes.

Emilio nods. “Yeah,” he repeats. “You’re the first Seb and I have gone out with so far. It was fun!”

“We’re not,” Newt stammers, and Hermann says “Ah, you’re mistaken—”

But Emilio and Sebastian are already walking off down the hall, leaving an uncomfortable silence in their wake, and Newt and Hermann don’t look at each other for the entire walk back to their rooms.

 

* * *

 

Newt thinks it’s pretty safe to write Emilio _and_ Sebastian off the potential boyfriend list for Hermann and adjusts aptly, diving right back into lurking in the mess hall and in LOCCENT for candidates. Turns out there’s a shocking number of people who are interested in getting to know one-half of the research division, which, of course, means Hermann methodically ruins his chances with each. There’s Theo, a j-tech with a charming smile and hardback collection of Hermann’s body of research who dumps Hermann after one date when he and Hermann get into an argument over _Lord of the Rings_ , of all things. James, who plays the guitar and dyes his hair blue, who Hermann offends after three dates by laughing when James mentions wanting to get his band back together after the war. Basil, a jaeger pilot hopeful who Hermann ditches after an hour when he asks Hermann to snort kaiju bone powder with him. Geoff, who takes Hermann to a movie and then spends dinner explaining how the Earth is flat. Giovanni, who Hermann sends to medical by—"Accidentally," Hermann insists to Newt later—elbowing the man in the face after he calls Newt a freak.

“You’re _deliberately_ sabotaging all my hard work at this point!” Newt exclaims, once he finds out what happened on the last one and goes to pick Hermann up from HR. (Hermann had to fill out an incident report, which Newt doesn’t think he’ll ever get over, so it’s less _picking Hermann up_ and more _sprinting to HR the second word spread that Dr. Gottlieb beat someone up to see the truth for himself._ ) Hermann’s sporting a nasty-looking bruise across his cheekbone—Giovanni elbowed back, evidently—and there’s blood staining the arm of his blazer. Hermann’s smiling sheepishly; it makes Newt feel a little funny. A little warm, maybe. He holds out his hand. “I can’t believe you defended my honor,” he says as he helps Hermann to his feet. Hermann sways a little unsteadily before he balances himself on his cane. “You really broke his nose?”

“I did, didn’t I?” Hermann says. He looks mortified for a second, and then, to Newt’s surprise, he _laughs_. It’s a little thing, more of a snicker than anything, but it makes Newt feel even funnier and the little warmth in his chest swells. “Ah. Perhaps I was a bit overzealous.”

Newt almost can’t stop himself from reaching out and brushing his fingertips across the purple-yellow mess on Hermann’s cheekbone. Hermann did that for _him_. “Overzealous might be the word for it,” he says, and grins. “You didn’t have to. You know I don’t care what people think about me.”

“You’re a doctor,” Hermann sniffs. “You’re the top expert in your field. You’re worthy of respect, Newton—”

“Yeah, right, okay, man,” Newt says, and pats Hermann’s back companionably. “I get it. My hero.”

 

“The next one,” Newt says, when he drops Hermann off at his quarters (he’s been doing that a lot lately, hasn’t he, he and Hermann never used to spend this much time together), “will be a _lot_ better.”

 

* * *

 

The next date the following weekend is not better. Hermann texts Newt twenty minutes into it—another LOCCENT tech, a short and stocky, named Antonio this time—with the news that Antonio never showed. Newt wonders if word of Hermann’s altercation spread around the Shatterdome and scared the guy off. Don’t cross the research division, or Hermann Gottlieb will send you to medical. Their loss.

It seems a shame to let dinner reservations Newt so painstakingly arranged go to waste, so Newt texts Hermann to stay put, pulls on his leather jacket, and takes the bus over to the restaurant. Newt’s a bit under-dressed for it in his ripped jeans and heavy boots, but thankfully, it turns out Hermann, in his usual work attire, is too. “Oh, the _grey_ sweater vest,” Newt says, hopping into what should’ve been Antonio’s seat. “A daring choice, Hermann. Maybe a little too racy for a first date.”

“Come to gloat, have you?” Hermann says, but he doesn’t really sound all that disappointed about being stood up, or even that Newt’s here.

“Not at all,” Newt says, eyeing up Hermann’s barely-touched bottle of wine. They don’t have anything remotely that fancy at the Shatterdome. Hermann must’ve really shelled out for it. “I’ve come to keep you company.”

“I already requested the bill, so don’t get too comfortable,” Hermann says, but he pushes the bottle of wine across the table and Newt fills his glass.

“So what was his excuse?” Newt says, and Hermann refills his own glass. “Sick? Family emergency? Kaiju attack?”

Hermann frowns over his wine. “Kaiju attack?”

Newt shrugs. “A guy tried that on me once,” he says. “It was so pathetic I let him think I believed him. Much less embarrassing for the both of us, you know.”

Hermann lets out an amused huff. “Mm. This one’s sick, supposedly.”

“I _see_.” Newt snags one of the menus off the table and starts thumbing through it.

“I said I already requested—”

Newt waves him off. “Yeah, I know, but I’m hungry and I haven’t eaten since lunch. I’ll pay for both of us if you let me stick around.”

Hermann looks pensive for a moment, then grabs the other menu. Bribe accepted, it seems.

Dinner with Hermann is—perhaps as a result of some miraculous, unforeseeable otherworldly power— _enjoyable_. Hermann’s model doesn’t predict another kaiju attack for at least a month and they have the weekend off, so without overwhelming stress and the tight, confined space of the lab weighing over them, they actually manage to hold conversations that don’t immediately devolve into petty jabs at each other’s clothing or personal habits or entire body of work. An all-time first since they were young and naive and sending each other veritable novellas by post every week. “You want to initiate a drift with a hunk of _dead tissue_?” Hermann says when Newt—in a fit of Hey, This Is Fun, Hermann’s Not The Worst To Talk To—unloads his latest theory, brandishing his chopsticks in a way that might be considered mildly threatening. He almost knocks over his wine glass in the process. “That’s absurd. Beyond absurd. It’s _dangerous_.”

Newt scoffs. “It’s only dangerous if I don’t have the proper equipment.”

“Which you don’t,” Hermann points out.

“True, but I _could,_  if I got approval. It’s only a hypothesis. I just thought you’d be interested,” Newt says, prodding at a lump of tofu. “As far as I know, no one’s managed to salvage any kaiju brains yet anyway.” Hunks or chunks or otherwise—Newt has a very careful eye trained on black markets across the coastal cities. That kind of drift is nothing that Newt will be attempting any time soon. Hermann doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push it, just eats a few more noodles.

The pass a few moments in a comfortable silence entirely uncharacteristic of the two of them. “Hey,” Newt continues, his heart suddenly thudding, “if you’re not doing anything after this—there’s a bar nearby I like. It has—music.” It's more of club, but  _bar_ sounds a lot more appealing out loud.

“Music,” Hermann echoes, as if the concept is entirely foreign to him.

“I know you don’t like the same shit as me,” Newt says quickly, remembering Rami, “but—”

He doesn’t expect Hermann to even humor the question, let alone respond to it, but to his surprise Hermann nods slowly. “I’m not doing anything after this. I’ll go,” he says. He holds up a finger. “ _So long_ as you aren’t simply using this as a ploy to find me another date.”

“Not at all,” Newt says, and he knows Hermann can see him flush. “This is just us.”

"Just us,” Hermann says, and nods.

 

Newt can’t imagine why Hermann said yes, frankly, Hermann hates shit like this, the more people packed into a room the more miserable Hermann gets, and the band sucks, anyway, all they do are cover songs, but he and Hermann lean up against the back wall and Newt stands close to him and it’s kinda _fun_. “I'm a totally shitty wingman,” Newt says, loud enough for Hermann to hear. “I’m basically just throwing guys at you until they stick. I could be doing so much _better_ if I knew what to look for.”

“You’re doing admirably already,” Hermann says, sounding very, very sarcastic. “A truly astonishing success rate.”

“Give me _something_ ,” Newt says. “What rocks your world, Hermann?”

Hermann hums in thought. “Conversations,” he says.

“How are you so boring?” Hermann glares. Newt rolls his eyes. “Alright, okay, conversations. What kind of conversations? Intellectually _stimulating_ conversations? A good scientific debate get your heart racing?”

“Personality,” Hermann continues, as if Newt hadn’t said anything. Sticking with the super vague theme of general things human beings engage in and possess, Newt sees. “Perhaps some—flaws. Eccentricities.” Hermann’s very interested in the head of his cane, suddenly, which Newt takes to mean their conversation is over.

“You’re no help,” Newt says. “Fine, back to winging it.” The band’s struck up another song, just as bad as the others, and Newt’s reminded of his early twenties with a deep, terrible pang. He nudges Hermann to get his attention. “I had a band back in Boston,” he says.

“I’m aware,” Hermann says.

“We were terrible.”

“I’m aware,” Hermann repeats. “I’ve heard a few of your songs.” When Newt looks at him, offended, Hermann’s smiling and the corners of his eyes are crinkling and Newt’s stomach does a funny little flip and he forgets all about his old band. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Hermann keeps looking at him like that. Something ill-advised and drastic, maybe. He turns his attention back to the stage before he can find out exactly how ill-advised.

 

They leave the bar not long after that, and Newt tries—unsuccessfully—to weasel more about Hermann’s Type out of him on their walk back to the Shatterdome and their subsequent walk back to Hermann’s quarters. Newt sees Hermann to his door, the gentlemanly thing to do if they really _had_ been on a date together, then waits with his hands in his pockets while Hermann unlocks it. “Sorry about Antonio,” Newt says, scuffing at the metal floors with the toe of his boot, and he truly means the apology. “Your night didn’t totally suck, though, right?”

“I daresay this was the most enjoyable date yet,” Hermann says, and smiles over his shoulder as he pushes his door open. “Goodnight, Newton.”

It clicks shut behind him, and Newt’s left with his mouth hanging open.

 

* * *

 

See: Newt’s _considered_ Hermann before, you know, considered him as more than just a research partner, more than just a lab mate. How can Newt not have? They argue, they fight, but Hermann’s the only one who understands Newt, the only one Newt trusts implicitly, the only one who can go toe-to-toe with Newt and keep him from spiraling too deeply into his own bullshit and is always happy to deflate Newt’s ego when he gets too cocky. But that’s all over and done with. All in the past. Newt gave up on rekindling the little spark of something he and Hermann had in their early days of partnership—before they met and the illusion shattered—years ago. He moved on. Accepted Hermann hates him. Mended, or more accurately ignored, his pathetically broken heart.

And then Hermann has to go and do shit like _that_ and kick Newt right back to the start of his disgusting gross woe-is-me Hermann will never love pining. This time, though—Newt can’t help but wonder—Hermann’s got that picture on his dresser, and he sorta-beat up a guy for Newt, and he actually looks _happy_ to see Newt when Newt comes into the lab on Monday morning even though Newt’s totally late. Hermann covers it up with indifference almost immediately, of course, snaps at Newt about leaving a mug of coffee sitting in the microwave all weekend—it’s molded, which is gross, Newt will admit—but his barbs at Newt throughout the day are light-hearted and barely go beyond teasing, like the way he acted throughout their dinner, and Newt _has_ to wonder that maybe it’s _not_ one-sided this time.

 

* * *

 

Newt doesn’t go out of his way to score Hermann anymore dates after that. Well. Almost. He has a theory, see. “Just one more date,” he tells Hermann. “Tomorrow night. Please. This one is _really_ special. I think you’ll like him a lot.”

“Newton,” Hermann sighs, “I really—”

“I _promise_.”

Hermann visibly caves. “As long as this is the last time. Frankly, I’ve lost my taste for romance after all of this,” he says. He's at the top of his ladder, erasing his chalkboard, as he does at the end of every Friday evening once he’s copied down his week’s worth of equations to paper. Newt always likes watching him do it—Hermann’s back and arm muscles strain as he reaches up, and Newt can see them even under all his layers. “Who’s this one, then?”

“A surprise,” Newt says, as he definitely doesn’t ogle his lab partner. “A blind date. Hopefully your type. He really, _really_ likes you, too.”

Hermann climbs down the ladder carefully and unhooks his cane from the side, leans on it as he turns to face Newt. “This is the final one,” he says, and Newt nods frantically in affirmation.

“Trust me,” Newt says. “If this one goes well, I’ll never set you up on another date again.”

 

It’s a dumb plan, in all honesty, guaranteed to make Hermann never speak to him again if Newt's  _theory_ proves wrong, but it doesn’t stop Newt from pulling on one of his Fancy Shirts, combing his hair, and hustling out into the city to get to the right restaurant ten minutes before Hermann’s due to meet his blind date. Who, you know, happens to be Newt. Is it dishonest? Maybe, but Newt’s hoping Hermann sees it as the cute, romantic comedy-esque scenario Newt’s intending it to be.

Newt taps his fingers frantically on the tabletop as the minutes wind down, and then the door is opening and Hermann’s walking in, and then he’s talking to the host, and the host points Hermann over to Newt and Hermann’s eyebrows rise. Hermann’s wearing a soft-looking navy turtleneck that clings to his biceps, and plaid pants Newt's never seen before; he looks so handsome Newt could die. He doesn’t seem angry when he settles himself into the seat across from Newt and rests his cane carefully against the side of the table. Just mildly amused.

Newt’s heart races, ridiculously fast. “Surprise,” he says, weakly. “I’m your blind date.”

“Are you, now?” Hermann says, but he’s smiling, that same coy, flirty smile he used on the very first guy in the bar, and Newt’s heart races even faster. Is this what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a flirtatious Hermann Gottlieb?

“Dr. Newt Geiszler,” Newt says, holding his hand out. To Newt’s immense relief, Hermann plays along, reaches across and shakes it.

“Dr. Hermann Gottlieb,” Hermann says. “A friend of mine told me you like me a great deal.”

“Your friend wasn’t lying.” Newt grins nervously.

“Nor about you being my type, either,” Hermann continues. The corners of his eyes are crinkling again; Newt could stare at them all day. Hermann lowers his voice and leans in across the table. “I must say, I have _very_ high expectations for this date.”

“I hope I can live up to them,” Newt says.

Hermann strokes his thumb across Newt’s knuckles. “I don’t doubt you will.”

 

The halls of the Shatterdome are deserted by the time Newt and Hermann make it back, which is lucky for both of them, because Hermann corners him against the wall the second they reach his bedroom door and starts kissing him within an inch of his life. Hermann’s a great kisser, it turns out, an _insanely_ good one, actually. It makes Newt jealous of all the people Hermann have kissed that weren’t him. “I was hoping for a little goodnight kiss on the cheek,” Newt pants, as Hermann braces his left arm—his very strong, very sturdy left arm—against the wall next to Newt’s head and starts mouthing across Newt’s jaw. “Maybe a hug. Oh, _wow_ , Hermann, where’d you learn to do _that_ —!”

“May I invite you inside, Newton?” Hermann murmurs, breath hot on the shell of Newt’s ear, and Newt’s knees shake and knock together. “Please?”

“On the first date?” Newt says, draping his arms over Hermann’s back, and he clings to the soft wool of Hermann’s sweater. “ _Shameful_ , Dr. Gottlieb—”

“Mm, no, I think you’ll find this is our _second_ date,” Hermann says, trailing hot kisses down Newt’s throat. “You bought me dinner and took me to a club, if you recall. I was very charmed.”

“Oh, well, if that’s the case,” Newt says, and his laugh is drowned out in a moan when Hermann does something very interesting with his teeth and then neither of them talk for a little bit.

 

* * *

 

All things considered, Newt _does_  find Hermann a boyfriend.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, find me on twitter at hermanngaylieb, tumblr at hermannsthumb (where i post shorter fics!)


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